


And if the fog never lifted

by spinyfruit



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-21 02:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14274522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinyfruit/pseuds/spinyfruit
Summary: It's easy to see their hometown hasn't changed. No need for the sun to find the way to the grit and smoke of city centre, the blossom and wind of the countryside, and the salt and shriek of the docks. But finding friends scattered and separated after years apart is much harder. Especially when one was captured by the grey hands of the fog.BTT-centric, with pairings





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has dark themes mentioned (for the most part) in the past tense. more tags may appear as necessary

Rain crawled, and levitated across the round window. Francis pressed his forehead to the cool, thick glass of the aeroplane and cast his eyes over the tilted landscape of his hometown. (Home _city_ now, he supposed.)

The weather was ghastly. The sun was wounded and setting as clouds swirled and loitered over the buildings, trees, and sea. Francis could see hardly anything. Just a bundle of faint and beckoning lights huddled in the centre and a couple others rippling outwards to the mouth of the docs. But he knew what was there anyway. If his hand could pass through the window, Francis guessed he’d have the right timing to drop his phone over Arthur’s old apartment right about now…

Francis jolted away from the window and pressed a hand to his lips. Still, a breathy laugh escaped him, and he glanced down at the black reflection of his phone.

_“You know guys, I would give my left arm to go back to the days when we didn’t have these fucking smartphones,” Gilbert yelled, slamming his beer onto the counter._

_Antonio’s giggles were slurred. He had half his face nestled in his arms. His cheeks bloomed pink. “Gil, what are you talking about? You’re always on your phone.”_

_Case in point, Francis smiled and pointed to the phone gripped tight in Gilbert’s other hand._

_“This?” Gilbert flapped the phone dangerously. His red eyes twinkled and he grinned; he always grinned when he yelled. “I hate this thing. Hate it. Hate it—GODDAMN IT!” Gilbert stood up, knocking his barstool to the floor._

_Antonio and Francis laughed hysterically. Only Francis possessed the lucidity to record the event on his phone._

_Gilbert spun around in drunk steps, spitting curses about Elizaveta, Ludwig, and Roderich. He finally faced Antonio and Francis again, pointing to them, phone in hand. “You know what my dream is? You know what my fucking dream is?” Francis could never forget how absolutely feline Gilbert’s angry grin was. Like a silver cat from hell._

_“No, Gil. Tell us what your dream is,” Francis prompted. His laughs shaked the recording on his phone._

_“My dream is to be able to throw one of these things to the wall after a bad text or bad phone call and not feel fucking guilty about it.”_

_“Gilbert, you’ve thrown your phone before…” Antonio teased._

_“I said throw it and not feel guilty about it,” Gilbert corrected. He gestured aggressively to his phone with his free hand. “These things are stupidly expensive! I mean, who thought a smartphone was a good idea?”_

_“Get a dumb phone then.”_

_“Come on, Francis,” Gilbert rolled his eyes, now laughing too. “That’s not possible anymore. But goddamn.” He leaned against the bar and grabbed his beer. He held it high, eyes twinkling. “My dream is to be able to throw this fucking phone as hard as I can against my bedroom wall. Hell, my dream is to have a dozen phones to throw one after the other.” He turned to Antonio and Francis and flashed a gleeful smile. “Like punching all the assholes in my life without getting punched back.”_

Francis thumbed the corner of his phone and looked back out the window. His lips stayed curled in a smile. He was happy to be home.

 

* * *

  

Home was a strange place to return to after three years away. Even sitting in the taxi at nighttime, Francis could sense the changes. It was a bigger place. Grown and taller. Fuller with strangers he had no history with, and empty with those he knew and left behind. Surely they’re around still. Most of them. Antonio and Gilbert, of course. Arthur was a given. But probably the friendly baristas Francis liked to flirt with and the clothing salespersons Francis would argue with too?

The taxi turned in the roundabout and Francis spotted a new highrise—taller than anything else he’d seen. He looked at its architecture in wonder and blinked dumbly when he spotted a familiar logo. The T in a shield. _Teutonic Cars_. That was Gilbert’s family’s company: the same one he and Ludwig worked for. Francis knew the company was doing well and expanding, but living in South America for so long, Francis supposed he didn’t realize just how well that meant. The building looked… glamorous.

“Looks smart, doesn’t it?” the taxi driver commented, noticing Francis’s prolonged stare.

Francis turned to him, quick to smile. “Yes, it does. How long has that been here?”

“Oh, I suppose… two years now? Teutonic’s always in the news now if you look around. One of the best “up-and-coming businesses of Europe” to quote the magazines,” he laughed.

Francis’s eyes softened and he gave one last look to the shiny skyscraper.

_Good for you, Gil._

The taxi turned into the area Francis knew much better: the series of apartments lining the back of downtown. It was where he used to live, once upon a time. He spotted his old apartment, yellow with light, several stories up. He wondered who lived there now. Francis was moving to a different place a little further down the street. The taxi parked in front of the smaller, more sophisticated apartment complex.

Francis was thumbing through his Argentinian pesos to find the right currency when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

“That’ll be twelve Euros, please.”

Ignoring his phone, Francis handed the driver his change and took his suitcase. He wasn’t able to check his phone until he signed papers, received his key, and reached the inside of his new, swanky one-bedroom apartment.

Although Gilbert had been AWOL for three months because of some holiday/business retreat/mystery excursion, Francis still expected the text to be from him. Gilbert was the type to send prompt messages when it mattered, and hundreds more when it didn’t.

But there were no messages from Gilbert. Surprisingly, it was from Antonio, who was possibly the worst communicator of the three—at his best, sending cryptic snapchats of people Francis did not recognize at all for several days straight before returning into disconnected oblivion.

However, tonight he texted:

_Frannnyyyy are you back yet???_

Antonio always texted like that, so whether he was stone-cold sober or blackout drunk, Francis had no way of knowing.

He smiled anyway, warmed by knowing Antonio was near, even if he lived quite a ways away now compared to the good ol’ days. On the very edge of town, by the docks.

Francis replied: _Just landed, darling ;) Want to meet for a drink at the usual place?_

Francis set his phone down on the kitchen island and dragged his suitcase to his bedroom. It was… lovely. Like the rest of the apartment really. Sparkling, new, modern. Francis clicked his tongue and left the room. It made him uncomfortable somehow. Back in the kitchen, several messages awaited Francis on his phone.

_Toni: Yaaaayyy the gang reunites! Francis, man, I have so much to tell you_

_Toni: But I can’t make it tonight D: Sorry sorry sorry sorry_

_Toni: Actually, I have someone over right now. Been meaning to talk to you about that_

_Toni: He’s glaring at me now actually. I might need to put down the phone soon_

_Toni: But hmu this weekend, amigo!! Come by the boat and I’ll take you for a ride ;)) She’s freshly painted_

_Toni: Ok definitely have to go now. Getting lots of scary looks lol_

_Toni: But welcome back home!!!! Can’t wait to see u!!_

Francis smiled fondly, but he couldn’t deny being disappointed. He wasn’t one for spending nights alone and was hoping to find some sort of company upon returning home. He drummed his fingers on the counter and pushed his long, blond hair behind his ear. Francis glanced around him once more, taking in the expansive living room windows and sparkling hardwood floors.

He marched back into the bedroom and retrieved his best trench-coat from the packed suitcase. Francis would go to their usual bar anyway. He wasn’t good at being alone and very good at finding company.

And, as Antonio was immortally recorded as saying during the dawning hours of post-Francis’s twenty-first birthday:

_“Fuck the pain away, that’s my motto.”_

 

* * *

 

Francis was still functioning on bad aeroplane food, but even five minutes looking wistfully at the window of his favorite French restaurant - now renamed - didn’t stir any appetite. His stomach was full with anxious butterflies and nostalgic sighs. Instead, he continued wandering down the sidewalk he thought he knew so well to the famed Beerwolfe bar: where he, Gilbert, and Antonio spent most of their most pinnacle friendship years.

It was an old building, tucked away a small side-alley, with a dilapidated, if not charming, outdoor patio for smoke breaks just beside the entrance door. Francis briefly closed his eyes, relieved to see at least this place was just as he left it: flaws, dirt, smoke, and all. Even walking into the building and being hit with the stench of beer and cider was deliciously wonderful.

Francis unbuttoned his beige trench-coat and walked to the bar. A few men and women were sitting there, but it was a weeknight, so there were still empty seats available. He perched himself on the barstool and fished out his phone; he decided to send out a feeler text to Gilbert anyway. Just in case Gilbert was tiring of being a mystery.

_I’m at Beerwolfe if you care to join, darling <3 _

Leaving his phone on the counter, Francis glanced at the sparkling liquor cabinet for anything delicious and familiar. Something caught the corner of his eye however, and he unknowingly turned to a familiar face.

“Oh my god,” Francis gasped, a small smile creeping across his lips. “Arthur?”

Arthur - British, blond, red-faced Arthur - was standing behind the bar, dressed in shades of brown and grey. And he was glaring at Francis with wide, heated, and swirling green eyes. A receipt was in his hand, and without breaking eye contact with Francis, Arthur handed the receipt to another customer seated at the bar, and strode over.

Standing on what was surely an elevated platform, Arthur slammed his hands on either side of the counter, rattling Francis’s phone, and snapped, “what the hell are you doing here, frog?”

Francis looked up at him, and although Arthur’s fury was obvious, he couldn’t help but keep smiling. Arthur was the first familiar face he’d seen in ages. “My darling! What a greeting,” he laughed easily. “I could ask you the same question. Do you fancy yourself a bartender now?”

 _“Obviously,”_ Arthur replied through gritted teeth. “What I want to know is why _you’re_ here. Shouldn’t you be galavanting around Brazil, drinking tequila, and sleeping with strangers?”

“My dear, it’s amazing how many things you can get wrong in one sentence.” Francis cupped his chin in his hand and studied Arthur’s face. A bit of four o’ clock shadow, and a few new lines by his eyes, but still just the same. “I was in _Argentina_ studying _wine_. Surely, you remember that.”

“But still sleeping with strangers, I’m sure,” Arthur retorted, and unceremoniously slapped a menu over Francis’s phone. “Here. Pick your poison.”

Francis picked up the sticky menu with delicate fingers and pursed his lips. “You know, Arthur, with the way you’re acting now it feels like you’re really intending to poison me.”

Arthur flashed a brief, callous grin. “I suppose you’re just going to have to take that chance now, won’t you?” He left Francis to collect empty glasses on the other side of the bar.

Francis and Arthur had known each other since they were children, and always had a certain cat and mouse relationship. But Francis still hadn’t expected Arthur to be quite so aggressive straight off the bat. After not seeing one another for three years, no less.

When Arthur passed by to deposit the glasses into the sink, Francis blurted, “Um, Arthur, dear—did I miss an important anniversary I’m not aware of?” Arthur’s back stiffened. Francis tried for a joke. “Did your cat die?”

Arthur slowly turned around again, eyes still furious, but now obviously hurt too.

“Oh my god, did your cat actually die?”

“I don’t have a damn cat, Francis!” Arthur barked.

Francis sighed. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought I was forgetting something.”

“You _are_ forgetting something, you enormous prick.” Arthur stomped over, once again gripping the bar in front of Francis. He loomed over, waiting for Francis’s reply. Arthur looked ready to lunge for Francis’s throat.

“Uum,” Francis searched side-to-side for an answer. He smiled meekly, “I’m sorry, Arthur. Maybe the jet-lag is clouding my memory. Can you give me a hint?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Monday. Seven days before you left for your _wine trip_.” Arthur’s hands quoted sarcastically around the words ‘wine trip’.

It took a beat, maybe two. But when it dawned on him, Francis laughed nervously, and looked away as he threaded fingers in his hair. He wondered if anyone was watching them. It didn’t seem as though Arthur cared at all. “Oh,” he finally said. “I didn’t think you remembered that.”

“Clearly.”

Francis peered up at him, trying to find some ground to fight back. It was as loose and untrustworthy as sand though. “Look, Arthur,” he began. “I’m sorry we didn’t talk after that night, but we were—we were both drunk, and silly, and,” Francis paused so he wouldn’t trip over the next words. “I was starting a sommelier course the next week, so I thought it’d be better if I didn’t mention it.”

“Bull- _shit_ ,” Arthur deadpanned. “You didn’t sign up for that bloody course until after we slept together.”

Francis’s eyes went wide. He did not expect his runaway past to be shoved down his throat so soon after returning. His stomach twisted in knots. He felt sick. And there didn’t seem to be much use in trying to lie himself out of this; for once, Arthur seemed very certain about his attack. So all Francis could do was quietly ask, “who told you?”

“Your idiot friends. They got drunk here the day you left and kept shouting it,” Arthur answered dryly. The anger was dissipating now. He sounded tired. Francis idly wondered how many times Arthur had rehearsed confronting him like this.

Francis groaned and rubbed his temple with one hand. “Idiot friends is very apt, you’re right.”

“Don’t get too cocky. You’re just as idiotic as they are.”

Francis pressed his palms into his eyes. This was _definitely_ not what he expected his first night back. Was he supposed to explain everything to Arthur now? Jet-lagged, confused, sick, and sober?

Shockingly, it was Arthur sighing now. And Francis felt a fleeting pat on his arm. “All right, I’m done attacking for the night. You can calm down.”

Francis peered through his parted fingers and saw Arthur—not _smiling_ really—but offering a less cynical frown instead.

Arthur tapped the menu. “Order a drink. Seems like you need one before you go home.”

Francis perused the list carelessly. He didn’t trust wine here. It was never any good, and now it would probably taste worse. “Just make me a double gin and tonic,” he said.

Arthur shook his head with the tiniest of smiles. “You snob.” And he left Francis, menu in hand, to make the drink.

Francis watched him go, and the sight reminded him of that Monday night he tried to forget. The truth was they weren’t that drunk. Tipsy maybe, but it wasn’t a good enough excuse. Maybe there were no excuses. Just explanations Francis didn’t want to confront, and Arthur didn’t have the opportunity to say. Or maybe they were just bored of being in their hometown for so long. That was what Francis kept telling himself.

When Arthur turned, Francis pointed his chin down to his black phone. No reply from Gilbert. He shouldn’t be as surprised as he was. (Or disappointed.)

“I’m rather surprised to see you here alone,” Arthur commented, setting down Francis’s drink.

Francis took a sip before bothering to reply. He winced, fighting a cough. “You are trying to poison me, aren’t you?”

“You don’t get tonic privileges yet, wanker.”

Francis half-expected Arthur to leave, but he stayed, apparently wanting to hear the answer. Francis stirred the ice cubes with his straw as he talked. “Well, Antonio’s busy with a new lover I don’t know about and—”

“Lovino, right? Or has it changed?”

Francis gaped at him. “ _You_ know? _You?_ How do you know and not me?”

“There’s the entitled prick I know. I was wondering where he went,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “You’ve been gone for three years, Francis. A few things were bound to slip through the cracks.”

 _“Antonio’s been dating him for three years?”_ Francis voice rose to a shrill pitch.

“Jesus!” Arthur jumped, green eyes going wide. “No, not three years. I was only teasing. I think they’ve been dating for six months? Or seven? I only know because they used to stop by with Gilbert.”

“Oh my god,” Francis moaned. “Oh my god, you’re right. My friends left me behind. They moved on and left me behind. I never should have come back. Oh my god.” Francis sucked at his straw, pushing alcohol down even though it hurt.

“You’re such a bloody drama queen, you know that? You just said Antonio told you about him. What was the point of him telling you when you were in Argentina? Were you going to fly back and throw him an engagement party or somethin— _NO,_ they’re not engaged. Christ. Get a grip.”

“Dear god, what else have I missed? Pregnancies, sex changes… what other gossip don’t I know?”

“You obviously think we’re all far more exciting than we actually are,” Arthur muttered. “Honestly, very little has changed around here.”

Francis stared at him. “Have _you?”_

Arthur didn’t back down, and stayed looming over Francis. His voice was cool as he promised, “I never change, Francis.”

“I,” Francis faltered, feeling his ears burn. He conjured up a magical laugh and stood straighter. “Well, at least there’s always you, Arthur darling. My steadying light during these dark times.” Francis felt the usual itch. Something he couldn’t satisify with a scratch. He needed to go, go, go, go now. _Now_. What was he even doing here? He reached down into the pockets of his trench-coat, searching for his wallet. Arthur was still there. It must have been obvious, maybe even awkward, but Francis could always blame jet-lag.

“This one’s on me, don’t worry,” Arthur said casually, already taking Francis’s half-finished drink away.

Francis paused, and feigned another chuckle. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I feel like my journey has finally caught up to me. I should probably go home for the night.”

Arthur didn’t bother to turn around. His voice didn’t even sound bothered, when he replied, “you do that, Francis. Stick to what you do best.”

Francis was standing by the bar, one hand in his trench-coat, but couldn’t make the next move. He wanted to ask what that meant, but his silence did it for him.

Arthur peered over his shoulder, one frustrated and faraway green eye pinning Francis in place. “Just run away like you always do.”

 

* * *

 

Monday nights were ungraceful.

Tasteless was probably what Francis said that night, but three years later he called them ungraceful. Because that’s how _they_ were. Francis and Arthur. Childhood friends, graduated from college and in their twenties acting like carefree, careless teenagers with nothing better to do than hang out at a pub after work.

When Francis talked about home to strangers in Argentina, he often lamented about being _so bored_. So bored all of the time. It was just torture to live where he grew up, with the same people he grew up with.

But the truth he kept unsaid and smothered in his heart was that he was never actually bored. And he wasn’t bored that Monday night. He couldn’t say the same for Arthur with absolutely certainty of course, but he had a strong feeling Arthur wasn’t either.

Being bored was just something you said. It was almost an excuse to see each other, because truly, they just wanted to see each other. And that Monday night happened after Francis and Arthur had been seeing each other more than the usual for them. Because it was as though when college ended a barrier between them had been shattered. A beautiful, protective little barrier Francis thought would have stayed forever, so that they too would remain unchanged forever. Francis had a perfect little world in his hometown - a world he spent so long cultivating - and he fucked everything up that Monday night by fucking the one person he was never allowed to fuck in his fucking hometown.

 

* * *

  

Francis sold his car when he left for Argentina, so he walked the half-hour to the docks. He could have taken the bus, but it was the first day the sun was blossoming in the sky and he wanted to take advantage of it. Plus, Francis loved walking. It was satisfying to him.

_“Just run away like you always do.”_

Francis frowned. If he could stop block those words from his mind, the walk would be far, far more enjoyable.

It pleased him a bit too much to find the docks the same as he left them. Mostly because the docks were never nice, and if there was one thing in the town that should have been changed, it should have been the docks. They were old, and littered. Most of the boats were graffitied too. (And not in the cool way.)

Antonio moved to the docs when they were all back in college. He provided several different reasons about wanting to “get his own space”, “be near the sea”, “be free”, “go fishing”, and et cetera. But it all amounted to the same thing in the end: Antonio just liked doing whatever he wanted to do. For better or worse, he’d always been like that, ever since they were kids. The only difference was he was rarely as assertive as Gilbert, or as persuasive as Francis, so Antonio took different measures to achieve it. Claiming his own space was one of them.

And to his credit, Antonio worked _to the bone_ to get that boat. Selling art, doing commissions non-stop, in addition to part-time jobs all over the town. It was a _nice_ boat. Francis and Gilbert had never seen Antonio work hard for anything until he wanted that boat. It was like something possessed him—he needed that boat as if it was his life force.

Francis spotted it, as white and red as the day Antonio bought it, and gleaming beautifully in the sunshine. Francis smiled. Then, when he saw a figure move across the deck, Francis giggled. When he was close enough to recognize the messy locks of brown hair, he ran.

Time felt both slow and fast as Francis bounced across the wood of the docks, climbed the steps to Antonio’s boat, and barrelled arms-first into Antonio’s chest. He returned to reality’s pace when he and Antonio fell hard onto the deck of the boat, and their laughs turned into groans.

“Oh my god, Francis,” Antonio wheezed, a broad smile on his lips. His eyes sparkled in the sunlight. “I think I’m going to bruise.”

Francis was still giggling and unabashedly drinking in everything about his friend’s face. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I think Gil’s spirit possessed me for a moment. As soon as I saw the boat I couldn’t stop running.”

The sunlight was blinding, so it was hard to make out for certain, but the way Antonio raised his brow was ever so slightly suspect. Then again, did Francis really know what was suspect about his friends anymore.

Antonio sat up, dragging Francis along with him by the hand. “Come on, Franny. You look tired. I’ll make you something to eat.” Antonio’s face was so warm, so tan, so full of sun. Francis didn’t know you could miss something so much when it was right next to you.

Antonio took Francis inside the boat. It wasn’t large of course, but it was still incredibly charming. Antonio made frittatas at his small kitchenette while Francis drank sparkling water: the only way to drink water.

“Sorry I couldn’t meet you the other day,” Antonio laughed sheepily. He scratched the back of his neck and leaned back against the small counter to look at Francis. “The person I’m dating is a bit… oh geez, what’s the word? Shy? Suspicious?” Antonio kept laughing. He seemed absolutely smitten. “I’d forgotten when you said you were arriving, and apparently I’d already promised to be with Lovino that night.”

Francis shook his head fondly. “I can’t say I was surprised. Actually, I was more surprised you remembered I was coming,” Francis offered a lopsided smile. But he decided to not pursue the recent past events. He wanted to know more about Antonio. He wanted to know everything. “So Lovino, is it?” Francis purred, lounging more comfortably in the tiny couch. “That’s an interesting name. Where is he from?”

Antonio grinned. There was something playful in his eyes when Lovino’s name was mentioned, Francis noticed. “He’s from Italy. He moved here a few years ago, but I didn’t meet him til—uh… Oh, he’d be so mad if I didn’t remember. But I think I met him a year ago now?” Antonio nodded his head, as if encouraging himself of the answer. A smile returned. “Yeah, a year. We met through Gilbert actually.”

“Through Gilbert? Wow, things have changed. Usually it’d be me setting people up,” Francis whistled.

Antonio turned the stove off to collect the frittatas onto plates. He talked as he worked. “Gilbert didn’t set us up,” Antonio chuckled shortly. “We just met through him. Lovino and Gilbert are friends.” Antonio stopped there, but as he set the plate onto the coffee table in front of Francis, he decided to say more. “Actually, Gilbert was a bit annoying about Lovino and I.”

“Annoying?” Francis repeated blankly. Then a thought dawned on him and his hands flew to his head. “My darlings, have I actually missed a love triangle?! That’s drama gold! I waited years for something like that to happen and I _missed_ it?”

Antonio laughed as he joined Francis on the couch. “No love triangle, Francis. I kinda thought that at first, which led to a few scuffles,” Antonio smiled in the other direction, looking a little embarrassed. He turned back and shrugged his shoulders. “But both Lovino and Gilbert kept insisting they were ‘just friends’. _‘Just friends’_. So I’m not sure what it is. I did end up punching Gilbert in the jaw though a few months ago. I haven’t heard from him since then.”

Francis’s eyes were wide and he went from staring at Antonio’s arms, which were as strong and tan as always, to visualizing him trying to hurt Gilbert. Francis wanted to kick himself, because it sounded like the sort of thing he should have been around for: if it was electric, then to intervene, but if it was funny, to record. Did Gilbert punch back? How long did the fight go for? Did they apologize? Oh right. Apparently that they didn’t.

“Francis? _Hellooooo!”_ Antonio waved his hand.

Francis blinked, trying to push the scene out of his imagination. “Sorry, I’m just a little stunned,” he admitted. “I feel like I’m a season behind in our hometown tv show and I’m trying to catch up.”

“Aw,” Antonio patted Francis’s arm, looking giddy again. “Don’t worry, Franny. There aren’t many big things you missed. I’m still living here. I still doing freelance art. Gilbert’s still living over there,” Antonio gestured vaguely in the direction of downtown. He saw Francis’s face was still crestfallen, and tried again. “And Gilbert and I are still friends you know! It was just a stupid fight. Honestly, after you left I think Gilbert and I were too close or something. The dynamic was really off. I think it was only a matter of time before we went for each other’s throats.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Francis sniffed helplessly.

“Yeah probably not,” Antonio agreed with a guilty laugh. “But you’re back now! Things will go back to normal. I’m sure Gilbert were turn up one day soon. Oh—speaking of which,” Antonio leaned in closer, looking very serious. “Elizaveta’s been calling me nonstop. She’s probably going to start calling you too, but don’t pick up.”

“Don’t pick up? Why? Did she and Gilbert break up?”

“Uh,” Antonio looked up for a startling long time. “I can’t remember. They broke up, then back together, then broke up again. It’s hard to keep track. Anyway, she’s been calling me everyday, even stopping by the docks looking for me. So now that she knows you’re here, she’s gonna call you too.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Antonio’s eyes danced mischievously. “Either she’s trying to find me to defend Gilbert’s honor and teach me a lesson—or, she wants me to apologize to him. It’s just easier to ignore her, trust me.”

“Toni,” Francis sighed long and loudly. “Your reasoning is actually appalling.”

“Lovino says the same thing, but just trust me it’s easier this way,” Antonio insisted, looking very confident in himself. “But I’m not going to be the one to apologize first, it’s Gilbert’s turn.”

Francis closed his eyes and nodded, though he didn’t agree at all. It was hard to reason with Antonio after he already made up his mind though. There wasn’t much left for Francis to do.

“But anyway, enough about me. I’m boring,” Antonio chuckled. He leaned over his knees, curling his knuckles underneath his chin. He looked childishly excited. “What about you? Argentina and studying wine. You must have endless stories. Any big events I should know about?”

Francis looked at him. Hundreds of images of late-night excursions and beach explorations flashed across his mind. But they were honestly all so… trivial. None of them lasted. None of them mattered now that he was here.

_“Just runaway like y—”_

Francis sipped his sparkling water and offered a dashing smile. “I’m the same as you left me.”

_Or how I left all of you._

 

* * *

 

Francis walked miles that weekend, making shapes and patterns all across the city. He walked by all of the places he knew: those he loved and those he hated. All of the shops, the restaurants, the pubs, and the hideaways. He passed by Gilbert’s apartment, he passed by his own old apartment many times.

But the place he returned to with each new shape he made was the apartment above the noisy Greek restaurant. The one with a balcony of a decorated iron and dying plants. Where there were two black chairs and one small table with an ashtray half-full. Francis passed by during the day, Francis passed by during the night. When it was alight, and when it was dark.

The place he ran away from. Arthur’s little apartment. Exactly the same as he remembered it. Exactly the same as he left it.

Francis came by to see it, but if he spotted a familiar figure he would start walking again.

 

* * *

 

The following week Francis started his new job at a ritzy magazine. He was the food and wine critique, of course. Though he critiqued his hometown so often while away, the truth was it was a proper city now, and not only that, it was a hub of industry. Not just Teutonic cars and manufacturing, but culture as well. Antonio often did artwork for this magazine; that was how Francis discovered it.

The editor in chief was a young woman named Jeanne. Francis adored her. She sparkled and charmed everyone in the office, most of all him. Time flew by on gilded wings working there. Francis had never loved a job before.

His new desk was still sparse. He brought a small succulent and perched it by his office window. Later he’d bring some frames and photos. Maybe some of Antonio’s artwork too. But for now it was the succulent, his laptop, and phone spread across a comfortably large desk. It made working a little hard, he had to say. Because apparently, Antonio was not wrong, nor exaggerating. Elizaveta did call, and she called several times in a row each time she did.

Francis was tempted to answer, but truthfully, the more Elizaveta called, the more he feared his phone. Instead, Francis would watch the lit screen, flashing Elizaveta’s name, until it finally stopped and returned to darkness. He breathed a sigh of relief each time it was over. But when it began again, he’d groan and hunch over his laptop depressed and frustrated. Except, at exactly 4:13 PM, when Francis’s phone lit up again, it was not for Elizaveta’s call(s), it was for a text… from Arthur.

Francis practically lunged at his phone to read it.

_Arthur: Still around? I’m going to Nero’s for coffee before work if you want to join._

Francis had to reread the message several times to compose his answer, because he was tempted to write _YES, YES, YES_. Even though that would freak out both himself and Arthur in the same breath.

Instead he raised his chin and typed out the very carefully scripted text:

_Lovely ;) I get off work at 5 PM._

 

* * *

 

Arthur was dressed in brown and grey again. Brown blazer, and a grey button-down; his trousers were a charcoal type of grey. He was sitting at a small round table with couches for chairs, so the picture of him lounging comfortable while sipping his London fog was too English, Francis almost couldn’t take it. (Almost.)

Arthur spotted him coming through the steam of his tea and said, “I ordered you a latte.”

Francis smiled as he undid his trench-coat. “Oh perfect,” he replied and sat down. “You know me so well.”

“Too well.”

Francis inhaled the scent of bitter caffeine, mixed with the faraway scent of last hour’s cigarette. “Probably, darling.”

 

* * *

 

_Elizaveta: Francis, I know you’re back. Don’t think you can hide from me. Pick up your damn phone!!_

_Elizaveta: CALL ME BACK OR ELSE I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL FIND YOU AND SHAVE YOUR HEAD_

Francis winced, reading the subsequent string of threats. “Elizaveta sure is… creative,” he muttered.

Antonio peered at his phone and blurted a laugh. “She said she’d castrate me too, don’t worry. They’re empty threats.”

Francis set his phone down and picked up his sparkling wine. They were sitting on the deck of Antonio’s boat, surrounded by rocking waters and lit by the stars. “Why don’t you just talk to her, Toni? Wouldn’t that be so much easier. For everyone, but especially my luscious hair.”

“Gilbert can talk to me himself,” Antonio said easily, pouring himself another glass. He settled back against the wall of his boat and looked up.

Francis said nothing and joined him in staring at the sky. It was brisk, but in a comfortable way. It made the wine taste better and the company of friends even warmer. It was an incredibly nostalgic feeling: Francis’s _favorite_ feeling.

“I do miss him though,” Antonio sighed.

“Same here.”

“I wonder where he is. He didn’t tell you, did he?”

Francis shook his head. “He sent me a series of messages when I’m guessing he was high about going on vacation to Russia, but I doubt that’s where he went.”

Antonio chuckled. “Yeah, he was in a bad mood about work stuff for a while. I’m guessing that was when he and Ludwig were fighting.” Antonio chewed his lip thoughtfully and glanced to the side. “He’s probably doing something work-related now. Maybe he’s in America.”

“You’d know better than me, I suppose,” Francis lamented sadly.

Antonio laughed and clapped his hand onto Francis’s shoulder, knocking a few splashes of wine from both of their glasses. “Don’t worry, I know for a fact Gilbert missed you terribly. That’s all either of us talked about for weeks after you left.” He gave Francis a winning smile, trying to lift his spirits. “It probably is about work, you know. Gilbert has been crazy busy for a long time. Honestly, I rarely saw him even before we had our fight.”

“Seems like he’s doing well, right?” Francis prompted curiously, remembering the new skyscraper.

Antonio paused for a second. “I think so…” His green eyes searched around the air. “He and Ludwig were bickering a lot, but I guess that’s how brothers are.”

Francis mused on that sentence, but not for long because his phone lit up. Another message from Elizaveta.

_Elizaveta: I’m coming down to the docks and I swear to god if I see you and Toni there I’m going to wring both of your guys’s necks_

“Oh shoot,” Antonio laughed nervously, and swiftly grabbed his glass and bottle of wine. He walked in a crouch, heading for the door to the deck. “Come on, Francis. We gotta hide!” he whispered with a giggle. “Knowing, Eliza, she’s two minutes away.”

“Hide?” Francis repeated, copying Antonio’s movements.

“Take your glass! If she sees that we’re both done for,” Antonio said, still looking far, far too giddy. “We’re going to hide until she leaves. Just follow me.”

“Oh my god,” Francis laughed wearily. “What have you and Gilbert dragged me into?”

“Come on, Francis,” Antonio winked. “It’s part of your welcome home party. The usual bad touch drama, isn’t that what you missed most?” Antonio ducked into the cabin of his boat, Francis close behind him. They shut off all the lights and hid in the bathroom, drinking wine between stifled laughs, until Elizaveta left.

They stared their hours afterwards, tipsy on wine, but drunk on each other’s company.

 

* * *

 

Francis had a keen eye for faces. He had a keen eye for clothes too, and that was the main reason he walked into a stylish new boutique two blocks away from his office during his lunch break. But it was his keen eye for faces that prompted him to look above the stack of silk navy scarves and to the young man standing behind the cashier counter.

Francis immediately strode over, catching the young man’s attention and surprising him further by grinning excitedly.

“Lovino,” Francis said, extending one hand. “You’re Lovino, aren’t you? I recognize you from Antonio’s photos.”

It was obviously him, and from the way he blushed at the mention of Antonio’s name told Francis he was just as emotive as Antonio described.

“Damn, you’re the French bastard, aren’t you?” Lovino replied, glaring at Francis with amber eyes. It was a harmless glare though, Francis could tell.

Francis tilted his head, still smiling. “What gave me away? My charming face? My winning style?”

“Your _cologne.”_

Francis chuckled, taking in Lovino’s appearance from head to toe. He was 100% Italian, Francis could confirm that. Leather jacket, black shirt, and shining shoes to match. “Antonio told me you worked at a clothing store. I didn’t think this would be how I met you though.”

Lovino shrugged his shoulders, still glaring, as if to say _What of it, you bastard._ He was very easy to read.

“So tell me, because I am so curious and Toni, bless his heart, is not much of a storyteller. How did the two of you meet?”

The store was fairly empty, as most expensive places were. And the fact seemed to annoy Lovino, who frantically searched for an excuse to leave the conversation. Disappointed, he mumbled, “we met at a restaurant with Gilbert and my brother.”

“By candlelight?”

“Over the smell of garlic,” Lovino deadpanned. Francis couldn’t tell he was making a joke, or being serious.

“Romance personified,” Francis said, playing along anyway. “So you’re friends with dear Gilbert too, no? What have Toni and Gil told you about me?” Francis fluttered his lashes and leaned over the counter.

Lovino raised a brow, trying his absolute best to feign disinterest. Case in point, he checked his phone as he talked. “You’re the smooth-talking slut that ran off to South America.”

Francis chuckled. “Toni was right. You really don’t mince words.”

“Nope.”

“You and Gilbert must be a rowdy pair together. He has a way with words too,” Francis hummed, feeling melancholy again.

Lovino glanced up from his phone, eyes loud and lips quiet.

“Oh, could you tell me the time?” Francis asked hurriedly, standing up straighter.

“Uh, it’s almost one,” Lovino answered vaguely.

“Thought so. Okay, well I’m afraid I have to go, my dear. But it was lovely meeting you,” Francis smiled affectionately. As he walked to the sliding doors he said, “when Gilbert’s back you must tell me how you two became friends. He doesn’t have many, you know. You’re probably special.” Francis waved and disappeared onto the street.

Alone in the store, Lovino shook his head and muttered, “not likely.”

 

* * *

 

Over the course of just two and a half weeks, Francis began dating Arthur. _Arthur._ His oldest friend, Arthur. He hadn’t planned it. It wasn’t the reason he returned to his hometown. It was the reason Francis avoided coming back for so long. But something changed. Even if neither of them actually changed, something certainly changed between them. Maybe Francis was finally tired of running. And maybe Arthur was a bit tired of throwing attacks without getting anything in return.

Neither of them even said it aloud that they were dating. But it was an unstated truth. They met for coffee most afternoons, and some mornings when Arthur didn’t have work the night before. They met for lunch sometimes, and during the weekends they met for dinner and walks. They argued about small things: their favorite pastime. And they both deftly sidestepped talking about big things: their least favorite pastime.

Tonight, a Saturday night, they were at the Greek restaurant underneath Arthur’s apartment _—_ because it was convenient and Arthur ‘didn’t feel like trying anything new’.

They ordered their meals and Francis chose the wine: the best wine they had in the restaurant of course. Arthur rolled his eyes.

“So do you think you’re done traveling for now?” Arthur asked coolly.

Francis could see right through him. He smiled. “I think I’ll be around here for a long time,” he said. Before Arthur got too comfortable, he added, “but I would like to go back to Paris sometime if you care to join.”

“Paris,” Arthur scoffed dismissively. “Always bloody Paris with you. I’m surprised you didn’t move their after Brazil.”

“Argentina,” Francis corrected again. “Not sure if I could live there actually. I’m quite sure I’d get nothing done living there. It’s too perfect for me.”

Arthur took a sip of wine to hide his smirk. “As if you do anything now.”

“We could go there for Christmas,” Francis suggested, eyes excited and bright. “Oh, Arthur darling, wouldn’t that be lovely. We could go to Paris for a week and see the sights, maybe go London for a few days if you insist—”

“You imbecile. You just got here and you’re already talking about your next trip,” Arthur reprimanded. “Just sit down and stay home for a few months. It’s not going to kill you.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Francis teased. His eyes were still dancing at the thought of traveling again. That’s just the way he was.

“I can, and I am,” Arthur said with finality. “Just be a good dog and do as your master tells you.”

Francis laughed so hard he had to put his glass of wine down. “My master? _You?”_ He doubled over the table.

But Arthur didn’t relent. He calmly sipped his wine. “Let’s face it, Francis. If we were two kings pitted against each other in war, I’d most certainly win.”

“Oh really?” Francis taunted disbelievingly. “And why is that?”

Arthur’s leg brushed against Francis’s under the table. He grinned wickedly, eyes electric green and mighty gold. “Because I know all of your weak points.”

 

* * *

 

For all of his charm and grace, it never ceased to amaze Arthur what a grouch Francis could be in the morning. Sure, his voice was soft, almost dreamy, but his words were sharp and cutting if he didn’t get his beauty sleep.

Untangling himself from Francis’s grasp was such a learned skill. It took many trial and error, Arthur found. He thought he was finally getting the hang of it though. He managed to escape Francis with only a few minor threats. It was his bloody house anyway, goddammit. He should be able to do as he pleased.

To prove it to himself, Arthur fled to the sanctity of his bedroom balcony and lit his morning cigarette. He left the door half-open to 1.) annoy Francis and 2.) hear Francis if he calls. It was a win-win scenario. He only got three puffs in before the morning was so rudely interrupted by the obnoxious and loud sound of Francis’s ringtone.

“Damn,” Arthur cursed, carefully putting out his cigarette to reuse later. He climbed carefully back into the apartment and eyed Francis’s buried body—well protected from any noise underneath layers of blanket and pillow. Seemed like Arthur was going to have to find it himself. He hunched over the piles of discarded clothing, sifting through to Francis’s trench-coat. The ringtone was louder— _what even was it?!_ It must have been the worst possible sound ever invented.

Arthur finally found the phone just as the ringing stopped. He saw the name Elizaveta on the screen; Francis did mention Elizaveta had been calling lately, but he never said why. Or did he? Maybe Arthur tuned him out.

Satisfied the ringing had stopped, Arthur decided to put the phone back and let Francis deal with it. But then it rang again. And dear god, was it louder than before?

“Damn, damn, damn,” Arthur cursed, fingers sliding across the screen without thinking. “What the hell is so bloody important, Elizaveta?”

“Wh— _Arthur?”_ Elizaveta blurted, clearly shocked. “Did Francis make you pick up the phone for him? Put him on. I need to talk to him. That fucking coward, why I oughtta—”

Arthur held the phone away from his face, letting the string of curses attack empty air instead. Sensing a pause, Arthur took the chance to say, “He’s asleep. Can you call back?”

“Oh, is he asleep? Is the _poor baby asleep?”_ Elizaveta mocked, raising her voice. “I don’t care. Put. Him. _On.”_

Sensing something deeper than the typical drama, Arthur ventured to make a guess. “Is this something about Gilbert?”

“Yes, it’s about Gilbert. Why the fuck do you think I’ve been calling these idiots nonstop?” Elizaveta continued, and Arthur pulled the phone away again.

It’s not as though Arthur knew much about the situation, especially since he didn’t quite understand what the situation even was. He did know something though. But… perhaps it was wiser to wait.  
  
“Hold on, hold on,” Arthur said, tripping over clothes to get to the bed. He began undoing the blankets, trying to find Francis’s head. “I’m getting him. _Hold on,_ I said.” Finally, Arthur found him. Fair skin, mussed hair, and all. Sleeping like a baby, despite all the noise. “Francis,” Arthur said, poking his cheek. Nothing, so he pulled some hair. “Francis, wake up.”

 _“Heyy!”_ Francis shrieked. Eyes opened blue and confused. “Arthur, what the hell?”

Arthur didn’t even blink. “It’s Elizaveta. She wants to talk to you.” He pushed the phone closer, and Francis frantically rolled away.

“No,” Francis whispered, tone desperate. “Put that thing away. Say I’m asleep or something.”

“I did,” Arthur replied tiredly. “Just talk to her Francis. Get it over with.”

Through the phone speaker, they both heard a loud, _“I can fucking hear you two, you know!”_

Francis winced, and once she quieted, he begrudgingly held out his hand to receive the phone. He took a steadying breath and smiled as he talked, “good morning, Eliza. What can I help you with today?”

“WHY THE FUCK HAVE YOU AND ANTONIO BEEN IGNORING ME?!” she screamed.

“Oh god,” Francis groaned, falling against the pillows.

“I’m going to step outside and finish my cigarette,” Arthur announced blandly.

“Aren’t you going to help me?” Francis whined.

Arthur didn’t even turn around. “I think I’m going to skip one episode of your trio’s drama, if you don’t mind. College was enough for a lifetime.”

Francis sighed, and lifted the phone again. “Just tell me, Eliza.”

Elizaveta’s breath carried through the speakers. She’d been yelling for a while. She was furious. “I haven’t been able to get ahold of Gilbert for months now, so I want you and Antonio to get off your asses and meet me at the docks TODAY.”

“Wait—” Francis shot up, holding the phone with two hands now. “You don’t know anything about Gilbert either?”

“Nooooo,” Elizaveta shrieked. “Why else would I be calling you guys so often?! I don’t know where the hell he is. So now that you’re awake, I want you to meet me at the docks in an hour. An _HOUR._ You got that?”

“Okay, but wait, is there anything more you can…” Francis stopped when he heard the line go dead. “Tell me,” Francis finished lamely, frowning to the screen. He tossed his phone to the side and fell back on the bed.

Eventually the balcony door opened, and Arthur peaked his head in while one arm dangled his cigarette outside. The smoke still entered the room though. “So what’d you do now?” he asked. “And please don’t tell me you slept with her to get back at Gilbert for something. That’s so high school. Even for you.”

Francis shut his eyes, wishing he could return to blissful sleep. “That would be much more fun,” he moaned. “It seems like there’s actual drama ahead.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and went back outside, leaving the door open this time. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Apparently not.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur drove Francis to the docks but he didn’t stay. And maybe that was for the best. Francis didn’t want to ruin Arthur’s day with whatever drama ensued. He could deliver it with better humor after it was settled. Francis was an excellent storyteller. He knew where to gild.

So Francis was alone when he climbed aboard Antonio’s boat, and he expected it to be completely void of activity. But on the deck was a familiar brunette.

“Lovino?” Francis greeted cautiously, a ready smile spreading across his lips.

The boy turned and, though he beared a great deal of resemblance to Lovino, it certainly wasn’t him. He was softer: in expression and features alike. He even graced Francis with a genuine smile.

“Oh, hello! You must be Francis, right,” the boy said, skipping happily to Francis. He briefly extended his hand before changing his mind and looping around Francis’s shoulders with a hug. “I’m Feliciano. Lovino’s brother.”

Francis laughed, both surprised and pleased. He hugged Feliciano back. “Goodness! You two look so much alike.”

Feliciano stepped away from the hug and giggled. “We get that a lot,” he said. His eyes were bright amber.

“Francis? Is that you?” Antonio called, stepping onto the deck. He was wearing his painting clothes—white shirt stained sleeve-to-sleeve in oil, and blue jeans just as ragged and worn. “Nice to see you, amigo! Do you want to join us for brunch?”

Francis smiled crookedly, feeling guilty he was about to disrupt another good-humored morning. “I wish I was, my dear. But unfortunately, I’m here to be the bearer of bad news.”

Lovino quietly appeared by Antonio’s side, listening in on the conversation. He regarded Francis with searching eyes.

Francis sighed, “Elizave—”

“Elizaveta is here, assholes. So you better be ready.”

Everyone on the boat turned to the dock to find Eliza dressed in a long, spring dress of angelic white, and looking ready to sink the boat with her fury.

 _“Fuck,”_ Antonio cursed, hunching his head. Lovino snickered behind him; it was the first time Francis saw him smile.

“Elizaveta,” Francis sang, taking lead of the conversation. “Please come aboard and join us.”

“Thank you,” she replied curtly, tossing her leather purse over her shoulder. “I will.”

“Elizaveta?” Feliciano repeated to himself. He looked up to the blue sky in thought. “Oh,” he gasped. “You’re Gilbert’s girlfriend, right?”

Elizaveta stepped onto deck with the help of Francis’s steady hand. She stood tall and corrected, “ _ex_ , actually.”

“You and Gilbert broke up?” Francis and Antonio barked in unison.

“For fuck’s sake,” Lovino cursed in the background.

“Yeah, what he said,” Elizaveta nodded, pointing to Lovino. “We broke up six months ago. You guys should know that.” She made eye contact with Antonio. “You should know that especially! You were even _there!”_

Antonio shrank back, laughing sheepishly and a little scared. “Oh really? Ah, I don’t remember. Or maybe I do,” he rambled. “You guys broke up and got together so many times, I lost track!”

Francis had his face in his hands, lamenting, “oh, Antonio…”

“Look, it doesn’t even matter if we broke up or not. I’m here as Gilbert’s friend. I was calling you guys as Gilbert’s _friend,_ but you were obviously too scared to pick up—though I can’t figure out why.”

“Antonio thought you were mad at him for punching Gilbert,” Francis offered. He made a silent apology to Antonio, but at this point it seemed as though it was better to lay all of the cards on the table.

Elizaveta gawked, looking genuinely shocked. “What? No! I mean, sure I was mad at the time, but that was ages ago. What I want to know now is where the hell he is _now!_ Did he really not tell you guys anything?”

“He told me he was going to Russia,” Francis said, hands raised in defense.

“Yeah, he told me the same,” Antonio added, pointing to Francis.

“Fuck,” Elizaveta sighed, tossing her head back. She took a few breaths. “Okay, well the last I heard from him was three months ago. He sent me a series of texts that made no sense. Some said he was so sorry for everything he did. Others told me to go to hell. The last few were vague, but basically implied he was leaving for a trip as well. When did you guys last hear from him?”

Francis and Antonio exchanged glances. Antonio spoke up first. He began hesitantly. “Well, he sent me a message maybe around the same time. It was passive aggressive, but he basically said he couldn’t meet up with me because he was too busy.”

Elizaveta looked to Francis expectantly.

“To be honest,” Francis closed his eyes. “I haven’t heard from him even longer. Maybe four months ago. But he sent me messages telling me he missed me and couldn’t wait for me to get back. A few days after that he told me he was going to Russia, but like I told Toni, I’m pretty sure he was high when he sent those.”

“You guys are fucking morons,” Lovino muttered, crossing his arms and moving to the other end of the boat.

Antonio glanced at him briefly, but returned his attention to Elizaveta. “He was really busy with work though. Could he be on a work trip?”

“Work?” Feliciano repeated, very confused. “Gilbert resigned three months ago. Didn’t you guys hear?” He swept the eyes of everyone on deck and soon realized no one had any idea what he was talking about. Feliciano backtracked with a nervous laugh. “Oh, no. Was that a secret. I can never remember what Ludwig tells me.”

Francis stepped closer. “Ludwig? How do you know him?”

“They’re dating,” Elizaveta answered first. “Feli, why did Gilbert resign? Did Ludwig say?”

“Uum,” Feliciano’s eyes were wide and unsure. “Neither of them said anything about it. Actually, Ludwig was really casual about it. I’m pretty sure he told me one day over dinner, and that was it. I didn’t think anything of it actually…” Feliciano trailed off helplessly. His face was downcast in guilt.

Elizaveta looked ready to attack, but thought better of it. “Don’t worry, Feli. You didn’t know. It’s okay.” To herself she muttered, _“I obviously should have come to you first though.”_

“Wait, do you know anything, Lovi?” Feliciano looked to his brother. He sensed everyone’s gazes on him, so he explained, “they’re friends! They’re part of a club together. He might know.”

“Lovino?” Antonio asked, moving to where Lovino was standing. He wrapped his arm around Lovino’s shoulders, encouraging an answer. Antonio whispered something that no one else could hear.

After a few moments, Lovino brushed him off, and turned around to face the others with arms crossed. “I know nothing, all right.”

“Lovino, seriously, if you know anything - _anything at all_ \- just tell us,” Elizaveta insisted. Her eyes were desperate, almost pleading.

Lovino looked at her: at first he was hard and determined, but only Feliciano knew that Lovino had a soft spot for pretty women. Lovino’s eyes thawed, no longer cold. The tension in his face dissipated until he could only sigh. “I really can’t,” he admitted meekly. “I don’t know anything, honestly. I mean—” he paused, and the tension was palpable in the air. “Anything that I do know, I can’t say anyway. So there’s no point in asking me.”

“What do you mean?” Antonio pressed, reaching for Lovino’s hand.

Lovino didn’t break the physical contact this time. But he was still defensive as he replied, “I already told you what I mean. It’s a secret club. That’s how we met, all right? I can’t say anything.”

Antonio squeezed his hand and leaned closer. He kissed Lovino’s neck. “Lovino, please… A secret from me?”

Lovino’s eyes went doughy for a moment, but he swiftly blinked and let the moment pass. He stepped away. “I can’t say. Sorry,” he stopped, meeting Antonio’s hurt eyes. “Sorry. Really, I am. But I just _can’t._ ”

“But _why_ can’t you?” Elizaveta demanded in Antonio’s stead. “Did Gilbert ask you not to say?”

“No, but—”

Elizaveta cut him off. “Well then, there’s your excuse right there.” Her high-heeled sandal tapped expectantly. “Gilbert didn’t tell you not to, so just tell us yourself. You can blame me if you like. I don’t care.”

“Seriously, I really _can’t_ say anything,” Lovino insisted. He flashed his wide brown eyes all around for back-up, but no one would give it to him. They were all too desperate for the answer.

“Lovi,” Feliciano insisted. “If everyone really needs to know, can’t you just say something? If you have anything that would help, can’t you just tell us?”

Lovino was obviously torn now. He seemed both mad at his brother and guilty to his lover; to the rest he seemed as equally guilty and complicated.

“Honest to god, I don’t know where he even is, so does it really even matter?”

“Yes,” Antonio said, green eyes hard. It was the are occasion where Francis saw Toni’s serious side. It was a serious situation after all.

Lovino looked just as taken aback, and at a loss of what to do. “Antonio, I can’t say anything. I don’t know where he is, I promise.”

“You know more than we do,” Francis pressed, not minding being the bad guy. It seemed as though someone had to be. And it was well past Elizaveta’s turn. Francis had to take charge at some point—he’d been three years away so he may as well step in now.

Lovino stared at him wide-eyed, scared, furious, and dumbfounded. It took minutes of Antonio’s whispering to encourage him to talk. Eventually, with his head turned away, Lovino whispered, “we were in AA together. That’s how we met.”

There was a tangible heartbeat in the air. Maybe even several. No one knew who should speak up first. But Francis’s stare told Antonio it was his turn.

Antonio tentatively reached for Lovino’s hand. Lovino didn’t shrink away. His body actually softened at Antonio’s touch. Even without words, the physical contact seemed to illicit the words: “I honestly don’t know anything else. We met through AA. but that was it.”

“And there was nothing else?” Elizaveta pressed, stepping forward again.

“Nothing else.” He seemed resolute again; obviously determined to hold his ground. “There was nothing else. I promise. We knew each other there. We hung out afterwards. But he never told me where he was going.”

Francis began laughing: it was breathy, strange, and forced. “Gilbert doesn’t have a drinking problem,” he said.

Feliciano stayed quiet like Lovino, but Antonio and Elizaveta looked at him.

“Oh, come on. Gilbert likes to drink, but he doesn’t have a problem,” Francis continued, hoping someone would agree with him soon.

Lovino shrugged lamely. “Maybe he doesn’t. He never talked or anything. He just came and listened.” However something in his tone suggested Lovino didn’t believe his own words.

“He still drank with me though,” Antonio added, eyes dark. “Even before we got into that fight we’d go out drinking. And it’s not as if he drank more than usual. Or less. It seemed the same to me.”

Elizaveta was tapping her foot, looking increasingly impatient. She pushed the strap of her purse further up her shoulder. “Okay, not to break up the heart-to-heart, but I’d still really like to know where Gilbert actually _is_. Clearly we have nothing, so I think it’s time to bring in the big guns.” She looked at Feliciano. “Where is Ludwig right now?”

Feliciano fidgeted with his hands. “He’s at work…”

“Of course he is.” Elizaveta shook her head and moved to the stairs.

No one moved at first. Francis and Antonio kept their eyes fixed on the deck, both clearly downcast. They didn’t believe Gilbert had a drinking problem. Gilbert didn’t _have_ problems. He had stupid problems, sure. He got into fights—with his words and with his fists. He pissed off the wrong people, and he’d argue with Elizaveta. But honestly - as long as all of them had known each other - _Gilbert never had problems_. He was obnoxious, but Antonio and Francis both knew Gilbert was also the dependable pragmatist of the group. He got things done.

“You guys coming?” Elizaveta shouted. She was already on the docks, tapping her sandals again.

Francis sighed and wiped his hand over his face. Antonio’s hands were clenched. Neither said a word.

 

* * *

 

Lovino didn’t join them, and Antonio didn’t press him on it. It was Elizaveta, Francis, Antonio, and Feliciano standing in the opulent lobby of Teutonic cars. Francis hadn’t stepped foot in the building since he’d been back, so it was his first time seeing the glamorous and modern interior.

“Wow, the company sure has grown since I left,” Francis  mused, eyeing the tall ceilings. Feliciano and Elizaveta were speaking to the receptionist. He and Antonio were loitering in the lobby.

“Yeah, Gil and Ludwig have been really busy,” Antonio murmured. The anger had dissipated now; he was just tired. Francis suspected Antonio was torn in his concern for Lovino and Gilbert at the moment. But Antonio was well-practiced in picking himself up. He smiled slightly and joked, “though I honestly think the decoration here is too German.”

“It is a little gaudy,” Francis chuckled.

Elizaveta and Feliciano waved to them and pointed in the direction of the elevator. Antonio and Francis joined them again.

“He’s in his office,” Elizaveta said, leading them to the elevator. She pressed the button. “He thinks it’s just Feliciano visiting him though, so this’ll be fun.”

Feliciano’s laugh sounded a bit strangled. “Ludwig really doesn’t like surprises, guys.”

“He’ll get over it,” Elizaveta muttered. The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. “I hadn’t thought to come here honestly. Ludwig was always curt and prompt when I called him, it didn’t seem like he was keeping anything from me.”

“Ludwig is surprisingly good at brushing things under the rug,” Francis agreed thoughtfully. Although Ludwig and Gilbert were brothers of the same autocratic streak, Ludwig was certainly the one in possession of more powerful professionalism. Gilbert was more the soldier and Ludwig the general.

Antonio patted Feliciano’s shoulder as they exited the elevator: silently apologizing, but also asking for forgiveness. Feliciano was a tender person and he felt bad for the situation they dragged him in.

And in a flash, it was as though spirits of their rambunctious, college-aged selves seized Antonio and Francis. They saw Ludwig’s office plaque - _Ludwig Beilschmidt, CEO_ \- and through the glass doors they saw Ludwig himself, sitting in a grey suit and talking seriously on the phone. Suddenly the realization of their best friend missing and their best friend’s brother calm-as-could be broke their adulthood. _What the hell was happening?_

Francis charged in first, absolutely no plan in mind. He stood quietly in front of Ludwig for a tense moment as the two of them locked eyes.

“Father,” Ludwig said slowly, keeping his gaze on Francis. “I’m going to have to call you back. Bye.” He set down the phone and clasped his hands together. “Welcome back, Francis.”

Francis still couldn’t find the right words to say. He had so much energy and emotion, but his lips wouldn’t move. He could only keep looking at Ludwig, analyzing his expression, and finding absolutely no clues to decipher at all.

“Ludwig!” Antonio yelled, appearing beside Francis looking far less composed, but at least more confident. “You have a lot of explaining to do. Where the hell is Gilbert?”

Ludwig spied Elizaveta and Feliciano entering the office; Feliciano made a hushed apology and Ludwig sighed. “Have you tried calling him?”

“Oh come on, don’t play dumb. He hasn’t messaged us in ages. He doesn’t pick up phone calls. And apparently you have his job now?” Elizaveta pointed to Ludwig’s desk plaque. “So where is he? He’s obviously not on a work trip.”

Ludwig’s blue eyes were calm and calculating. “No,” he admitted slowly. “Gilbert is up north visiting family. He thought it’d be better if he didn’t use his phone for a few months and got some much needed rest.”

Antonio’s face scrunched in confusion, and he exchanged looks with Francis, both wondering if Gilbert ever mentioned family ‘up north’. They had no idea. “Why did he resign?” Antonio demanded.

Ludwig pressed his lips together, looking slightly torn now. “Obviously none of you were in contact with Gilbert before he left, but he’d been struggling with job-related stress for quite some time. We thought it’d be better if I took over to ease the burden.”

Elizaveta’s eyes were very tentative—she had no idea how much was truth and lie. It didn’t sound like a lie though. “But he still left even after you took over. Something must have happened.”

Feliciano might have been the only one sensitive enough to realize Ludwig was slowly losing his composure. “You guys, I think Luddy’s told us all he can. Gilbert’s with family! So he’s fine! Isn’t that what we needed to know?”

“Gilbert’s not with family,” Francis scoffed, finding his voice again. “He might be up north, but Gilbert would never leave his friends to be with family none of us have heard of.”

 _“With all do respect,”_ Ludwig replied through gritted teeth. “None of you were involved with what happened. You,” he pointed to Francis. “Were gone and had been gone for years. Antonio was too busy with Feli’s brother. And you…” his voice trailed off and he glared intensely at Elizaveta. _“Broke Gilbert’s heart.”_

“Wha—You’re blaming _me?”_ Elizaveta barked, cheeks flushing pink. “Gilbert wasn’t mad when we broke up. We ended things as friends. He was completely fine with it!”

Ludwig brushed off her words like they were made of lint. “Regardless of how much you care now, and how close you all were in the past, the fact is you know _nothing_ about what happened with Gilbert. _Nothing.”_ He levelled each person in the room with his pale, blue eyes. Everyone felt so small. “Gilbert’s fine, so you can be assured of that. But this is a family matter now. My father and I are handling it.”

Francis opened his mouth to reply, stopped, and tried again. “You’re not going to tell us anything then?”

Ludwig blinked and sat a little straighter in his leather chair. “I’ve told you where he is, more or less, and that he’s fine. That should suffice.”

Antonio groaned in frustration and grabbed his head. He made one last attempt. “Can you at least tell us when he’s coming back?”

Feliciano nodded encouragingly to Ludwig.

Ludwig sighed and glanced to the side. “He was supposed to be back yesterday.”

 _“Yesterday?”_ Elizaveta repeated, voice shrill. “Why isn’t he here now?”

Ludwig shook his head, eyes closed. “I’m not sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update! grad school got the best of me...trigger warnings for talks of alcoholism, vague mentions of depression. (i’m always so vague guys)

“The color white sure is deep,” Gilbert muttered quietly. After a beat, he added, “if it is a color, I guess.”

He was lying atop a made bed, arms stretched and folded behind him. He was staring at the ceiling. Correction: he’d _been_ staring at the ceiling. For over three hours. There was no reason for him to move, so he didn’t. He was alone in an undecorated room. Even if someone was there with him, he still would have been alone.

Gilbert rolled over onto his side and stared at the left wall. It was also white. Hours passed by.

 

* * *

 

The day he was given permission to leave the Whiteness, Gilbert was handed his phone, wallet, and a suitcase of other necessary possessions. He received instructions to call his father as soon as possible. So Gilbert waited until he was outside, and after he managed to bum a cigarette from a lonely bystander. Thanking him, Gilbert took a puff and dialed his father’s number.

“Gilbert,” his father greeted after one ring. His voice was old now, but still strong and controlled. There was a tentative pause. “You received your things all right, I take it?”

“Yeah,” Gilbert drawled. He flicked ashes to the ground and looked around. Gilbert expected the world to seem vibrant, even disgustingly colorful, after so many weeks of Whiteness; but instead, it was just… _flat_. Tone-deaf. It was a little disappointing. “Is Ludwig picking me up?” He dragged on his cigarette.

“No, actually,” his father coughed. “Ludwig couldn’t get away from work, so we bought you a train ticket, if that’s all right. You leave this evening. You should receive the email with your ticket.”

Gilbert blinked, processing the information. “Yeah, okay.”

There was silence. Gilbert didn’t notice it - too lost in his own head - but his father did.

“So Gilbert… the arrangement is for you to move in with Ludwig for now. You’ll have your own room, but you’ll be sharing the apartment,” his father instructed seriously. “You’ll be expected to go to therapy sessions and AA meetings once a week. No skipping allowed. Ludwig will make sure of that.”

 _I’m sure he will,_ Gilbert thought to himself.

“The other condition is you are not to be in any way associated with business. Officially, you’re taking a leave of absence, so you’re expected to follow that.”

“Should I get a job somewhere else?” Gilbert asked coolly.

His father quieted. “Not at first, Gilbert. Just… just do as Ludwig and I say for now. In a few weeks, if you feel better, we can talk about you working again.”

“I feel fine,” Gilbert said. To himself, he sounded confident, like usual.

But to his father’s ears, Gilbert sounded weak. “Just take it easy for now. Stay under the radar. Let Ludwig handle the business. And when things—” _you_ “—return to normal, we can talk about you returning to the company. Or working somewhere else, if you prefer.”

Gilbert had to pause and rewind what his father said to register it. Blinking from his reverie, he replied, “fine.” The cigarette butt dangled between his fingers: he didn’t remember finishing it. Dropping it to the floor, he added, “anything else?”

His father breathed pensively for several seconds. “Remember the train. It leaves at six.”

Gilbert hung up before they could make forced goodbyes.

 

* * *

 

In total, it was a four-hour train ride with one stop three hours through. It was the train station of the neighboring town, and Gilbert knew it quite well. It was charming in its own way. Not really a proper train station—the area was more rural than his hometown, with more sprawling estates than industry.

It was around 8 PM and getting dark now. The green shades of the station were filtered venomous yellow by the street lights, and the shadows of the persons standing next to him were long and jaggedy. Gilbert was functioning on autopilot: he had been for months, and still now acting per his father’s instructions. So there he stood, next to a bench but not sitting on it, grey suitcase poised next to him and the worn ticket clasped in his hand. He’d been bending it all throughout the previous journey, lacking headphones or any book to read.

Gilbert stared at the arrival time for the train: 8:16. He stared at the large analog clock fixed over the station cafe: 8:09. Usually Gilbert was addicted to time. Usually time meant some sort of control, a knowledge of his day and what he was doing. Now it felt like the clock-face was controlling _him._

Gilbert unpocketed his phone. Another time: 8:10.

“Fuck,” he whispered. His hands worked on their own, unlocking it—contacts— _hm, maybe not_ —texts— _shit, too many, too many, too many_ —email— _why bother?_ —social media— _Gilbert deleted his social media._  He scowled at his phone, bringing it closer to his face, like it was an opponent. “Why the hell do we even have these things?”

God, he wanted to break it. Dear fucking god, he wanted to shatter its smug, black screen. His hands even curled around, and the muscles in his shoulder went taught, ready to launch it to the other side of the tracks against the brick wall. But. He. Just. Couldn’t. Fucking. Do. It.

“You win again,” he conceded, putting his phone away.

A rumbling roar was nearing and the speakers reminded everyone to stay behind the yellow line, corralling them on the platform like cattle. The train was in eyesight now. Gilbert figured he could toss his phone onto the tracks and kill it that way… but with his luck being the way it was, he’d probably get fined for littering. Maybe it wouldn’t even break. Gilbert used to be so good at breaking things. Not so much anymore though.

The train arrived, snaking fast-to-slow across the platform as the conductor put on the breaks. Gilbert’s eyes were mesmerized by the passing carriages, he tried to see if he could look into each one and find passengers. There were a few he could make out: some old, and some young. A child even waved at him.

Eventually, the train came to a stop, and with its impasse came another migration. The strangers with long shadows Gilbert paid no attention to shuffled to the carriage doors as the people inside exited. Movement. Action. Life. Whistles blowing, steam, and rolling suitcases. Gilbert could join the rush, but he could also leave it. His eyes followed the crowd leaving the station and he yearned to walk too. He hadn’t walked in ages.

Gilbert’s mind wasn’t made up, but it wasn’t his mind he was embracing. It was his body. Gilbert picked up his suitcase and walked. The train ticket slipped from his fingers, and he still walked. He walked and he walked. Out of the train station, onto the cobblestoned sidewalks, and down the steep hill. Lit by the night sky and streetlights. He knew where he was walking. Gilbert used to be in this town so often, once upon a time. It was a pretentious area - now that he was entering the groomed gardens of upper class houses, he thought it again - but pretentious or not, it was a beautiful area. Gilbert knew where he was walking.

A strange, long-absent laugh trickled from his lips. It was breathy, and not very strong, but it made him walk faster. He recognized a certain iron fence with intricate floral detailing, and smiled. His hand curled over the handle and opened it—it still creaked in the same way.

 _And he kept meaning to get that fixed,_ Gilbert thought smugly.

The pale blue house was two-stories and, if compared to the others on the street, was not the grandest. But Gilbert knew this house better than most, and regardless of its more modest size, it was _by far_ the most palatial. He was surprised to see no lights were on. It made Gilbert hesitate, but only to get a better glimpse of the car parked in the driveway.

He snickered. It was a platinum Teutonic Royale with the same license plate.

So he set down his suitcase, grabbed pebblestones from the driveway, and began tossing them, one at a time, to the second-story balcony window.

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

“Don’t tell me you’re deaf now. The irony would be too much,” Gilbert muttered, a little annoyed. He threw harder.

_Tap!_

_Tap!_

Gilbert stopped when a light turned on. The balcony door rattled and opened. A red-faced, weary-looking Roderich stepped out in pajamas. He shakily put on his glasses and stared down.

“For goodness sake,” Roderich denounced weakly. His voice was off and his nose was stuffy. Seemed as though the redness was not from embarrassment. Most of it. “Gilbert, what in god’s name are you doing here? At this time of night?”

Gilbert rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway. “Roddy, it’s not even nine.”

Roderich didn’t acknowledge the correction. “What are you doing here? Last I heard you were practicing your famous ghost impression.”

“You look sick,” Gilbert replied, noticing Roderich’s woozy stance. “Knowing you, you haven’t eaten a thing since you woke up… _princess,”_ Gilbert said the last word more to himself.

Roderich didn’t hear, being too far up, but he knew Gilbert well enough to recognize the cues of his insults. “What was that?”

 _“I saaaid,”_ Gilbert drawled louder, speaking to Roderich as if he were slow. “Let. Me. Inside.”

Roderich tsked dismissively. “I don’t take strays.”

“Come on, Roddy,” Gilbert pleaded in a silly voice. He made wide and mocking eyes. “It’s just a short walk down the stairs. You can do it. I’ll carry you back up if you need me to.”

Roderich stiffened, and surely he was red from embarrassment now too. “I do _not_ need to be carried.” Gilbert shrugged his shoulders and Roderich narrowed his eyes. “Fine. Give me two minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go put your fuzzy slippers on. I ain’t going anywhere.” As if to prove it, Gilbert squatted atop his suitcase.

Roderich took one last look at him and shook his head. “You’re the gum under my shoe,” he retorted, before disappearing back into the house.

 

* * *

 

Roderich was a weird combination of physically fragile and mentally impenetrable.

No.

Wait.

Mentally _oblivious_ was more accurate, and part one of the reasons he was physically fragile. Gilbert and Roderich had been friends since they were children - their families knew each other, and Gilbert would often be dropped off for visits - so Gilbert knew first-hand how sickly and clumsy Roderich could be. But Roderich himself never acknowledged the fact. While he was sick he became ever-so-slightly more vulnerable, but as soon as he recovered it was as if the event was cancelled from his mind.

Point being Gilbert was a veteran at handling Roderich on his deathbed. He had to barely address Roderich’s sways, coughing spells, and absent stares; and instead just order him around. It was easier when Roderich wasn’t as sharp-tonged.

“Jesus, Roddy,” Gilbert whistled, looking over the empty kitchen cupboards. “I’m surprised after all these years you still don’t have a butler. I mean, Christ, how do you survive?” There was only a few unopened packets of crackers in the cupboards, a few cans on a higher shelf. In the refrigerator was a litre of milk and some chocolate.

Roderich was splayed belly-down on the couch outside the kitchen. His breathing was heavy and his eyes were closed. “Why would I need a butler?”

“Um, because you’re an invalid with no food in the house?! I’m starving, dammit!”

Roderich scrunched his eyes to express frustration. It was a pathetic attempt Gilbert couldn’t see. “Just… order something,” he wheezed. It was meant to sound biting. He tried again, “you fool.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes. He wasn’t actually hungry, but he’d hope the taunt would divulge a secret stash of food he could actually use to feed Roderich. It’s not as if Roderich could stomach any greasy delivery food whilst sick—he could barely handle it when he was healthy. Gilbert supposed crackers and soup would have to do. Hopefully Roderich would eat some of it.

“All right, just keep breathing. I’m going to make some soup.”

“You hate soup.”

“Well, it’s soup and crackers tonight so get hungry,” Gilbert commanded, pulling the packages and cans from the cupboard. The kitchen was, at least, stocked with an array of beautiful, top-of-the-line cooking supplies. Gilbert rolled his eyes. _Where are your priorities, Roderich._

“Gilbert,” Roderich mumbled. “Your phone is flashing. I think someone’s calling.”

“God dammit,” Gilbert cursed, walking frantically to pick up the phone from the coffee table. Roderich’s hazy eyes watched him with interest. “It’s just Ludwig,” Gilbert said. Although, after ignoring the call he saw new messages from Elizaveta, Antonio, Francis, and Lovino. He put the phone on silent and in his pocket, safe from Roderich’s prying. “Seems like I’m such an awesome big brother he can’t go a day without calling me,” he joked, returning to kitchen.

Roderich’s stare followed him until he was out of view, then it returned helplessly to the floor. Several minutes passed, and he replied, “if it’s Elizaveta you can tell me you imbecile.”

Gilbert had been stirring the soup, but the comment made him almost drop the spoon. He felt frozen for too long, though it was only a few moments, and it took a while for him to wrap his head around the implications of that statement. “Wait, you mean—”

“We’re adults. So please don’t treat me as though I can’t handle indelicate subjects.”

“Wait a second, Roderich,” Gilbert flew out of the kitchen, spoon in hand and dripping with soup. “Are you telling me you and Eliza _aren’t_ dating?” He repeated with greater inflection. “She didn’t leave me for you?”

Even scrunched on the couch, Gilbert knew the familiar face of condescending confusion Roderich was making. “What? Of course not,” he blurted. “I—I didn’t even know the two of you had broken up again. When did that happen?”

Gilbert was absolutely dumbstruck. Did he hallucinate the whole thing? “Six fucking months ago.”

Roderich winced. “Please watch your language, Gilbert. There’s really no need.”

“Oh my god,” Gilbert brought the spoon to his head. His grin was wide and crazed. “She didn’t leave me for you. What the _fucking_ hell?”

_“Language…”_

“That means her whole epoch speech about not being in love with me anymore was actually fu _CKING TRUE. GOD DAMMIT!”_ He was turning on his feet, looking for something to break. “That means I actually am a piece of shit! And I kept telling myself it was all an act to run back to you. Dammit. DAMMIT. _DAMMIT!”_ He realized he had a wooden spoon in his hand and decided that would do, so he tried to find somewhere to aim—

“GILBERT!” Roderich had managed to get up from the couch and close a weak, clammy hand around Gilbert’s wrist.

Like a spell, Gilbert stopped at once. He looked down at Roderich.

Roderich, though sick, regarded Gilbert with forceful, indigo eyes. “Get ahold of yourself and go back to the kitchen.”

Gilbert’s breathing slowed until a small, mocking smile appeared. He was reminded how pretty Roderich was when his nose wasn't held so high. Even prettier when he was angry. “Are you treating me like your housewife?”

Roderich let go of Gilbert’s wrist with a huff. “My temporary butler,” he muttered and crawled back onto the couch, this time lying on his back with his head propped against the arm rest. He narrowed his eyes to Gilbert. “Well move along. Unless you’d rather talk now.”

 _Talk about what just happened,_ he probably meant.

With a short laugh, Gilbert retreated back to the kitchen. In a way he wanted to talk to Roderich. He walked to his house for a reason. He trusted Roderich in a different way than Antonio and Francis. Maybe because Roderich was so different than them. And Elizaveta too, for that matter.

Roderich was ridiculous in almost every way, but he was soft too: even if he didn’t know it. And it relaxed Gilbert, because around him he didn’t have to try quite so hard. Even better, Roderich lived in his own little world, so any possible gossip about Gilbert and recent events concerning him likely passed him by.

Gilbert made two bowls of soup and crackers for them, and set them on a tray atop the coffee table. He made tea as well, and made a second trip to bring the mug to Roderich.

Gilbert made a curtsy. “My darling husband, I slaved all day on this dinner, so I hope you enjoy it.”

“Sit down,” Roderich ordered, feeling feverish and flustered. He didn’t have the energy for Gilbert’s antics, and focused on the tea. He maneuvered to a sitting position, and Gilbert sat beside him, but not very close. (Neither of them were comfortable being too close.)

“So how’s the rock n roll career going?” Gilbert asked, taking a swig from the milk bottle.

“I do not play—hey!” Roderich made a pathetic swipe for the milk bottle, but Gilbert held it high and away. “Do not drink from the bottle. Get a glass if you must drink it.”

“Don’t worry, Roddy,” Gilbert brushed him off. “I’ll finish this tonight and restock your kitchen before I leave. Wouldn’t want to spoil your morning latte.”

Roderich almost - _almost_ \- retorted with a question as to why Gilbert had to leave so soon. Roderich didn’t realize it until he had company, but he was a bit… lonely. Sometimes.

Returning to Gilbert’s first remark, Roderich replied, “Composing music scores for film and television is going very well, thank you. Actually I just recently returned from Paris.” He coughed into his elbow and wheezed, “I’m pretty sure that’s how I got this awful cold.”

“Paris will do that to you,” Gilbert quipped, not bothering to correct cold for flu. “How long have you been away?”

Roderich took a delicate, bird-like nibble of his cracker. He seemed disappointed at the taste. “Oh, two months. I was involved in a French film over there. It seemed awful, but at least the music will be good.” He held his nose high like a pseudo-aristocrat. “Before that I was in Vienna for an Austrian film. It was much better. We’ll see if it receives any awards or not though.”

Gilbert’s eyes softened, and his smile was very amused. “Look at you, Roddy. Jetsetting all across Europe like a superstar.”

“It’s hardly jetsetting,” Roderich huffed, looking a bit uneasy. “They’re just small films. I have a long ways to go.” He finished the cracker and looked to Gilbert expectantly. Usually Gilbert would have jumped at the chance to boast. Roderich was surprised he had to offer bait. “What about your job, Mr. CEO. I’m surprised you haven’t bragged about the height of your skyscraper.”

Gilbert’s laugh was so loud and sudden Roderich jumped back. Gilbert had to set down the bottle of milk on the floor and close both his hands over his mouth. “Roddy,” he wheezed, still laughing. He looked at Roderich with teasing, red eyes. “Roddy do you really want to know how tall my _skyscraper_ is?”

Roderich stared at Gilbert like he was from outer space for five long moments. When the joke finally caught up to him he was beet-red and livid. _“You moron,”_ sputtered. “When will you stop being such a child?”

Gilbert chuckled some more. “Sorry, man. Sorry,” he said, not sounding apologetic at all. He was hoping to distract from having to answer, because he couldn’t very well lie. “Actually, it’s _ex_ -CEO. I resigned,” he said slowly. “But for your information, the skyscraper is very tall indeed.” He winked and talked even faster. “Ludwig’s CEO now and business is great. Taking over all of Europe one car at a time, you know. And—”

“Wait a second,” Roderich interrupted, raising his hand. “You,” he pointed to Gilbert, _“resigned?”_ He was absolutely baffled. “That company was your whole world. Don’t tell me you’ve had your midlife crisis already.”

“Well, uh,” Gilbert looked away, increasingly uncomfortable. (Truth or lie? Truth or lie?) He forced a laugh. “Yeah, I guess I did,” he lied. “Cars this, cars that. You know me, Roddy. I’m into fun! Not business. So I thought maybe I’d get into something different. Before I’m grey-haired and… _kesese,_ oh wait.” He ran a hand through his silver locks.

Roderich was not so easily distracted by Gilbert’s antics however, even whilst sick. His eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

“Well, you win some, you lose some.” Gilbert shrugged his shoulders and downed the rest of the milk. He stood up and glanced down to Roderich’s tray of soup and crackers. It was half-eaten; probably as much as Roderich could do. Gilbert extended his hand with a flourish. “Shall I carry you to bed, princess?”

Roderich scoffed and slowly - _ever so slowly_ \- stood up of his own accord. He balanced his full weight on the couch. “As if,” he breathed, and began staggering away from the couch.

Gilbert clasped his hands behind his back, keeping his smile small. He let Roderich lead the way on shaky feet, but he noticed how Roderich blanched at the sight of the stairs.

Roderich feigned indifference with a small cough. “My room is upstairs, but the guest bedroom is down here.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Right,” Roderich nodded and began climbing. “Well, goodnight then, Gilbert.” His walk was terribly slow, but Gilbert had to admit—when it came to pride Roderich had an impressive amount of willpower to back it up. 

Gilbert still stayed at the base of the stairs, making sure Roderich wouldn’t collapse on his way up.

Roderich didn’t waver, but he did stop halfway through to look behind. His feverish eyes looked a little concerned. “Gilbert, I know you’re incapable of serious conversation,” he began with an insult. Classic. “But,” he stopped, a little unsure. “I know from Elizaveta you’ve been gone for a while. She didn’t tell me you two had broken up, but she did seem very concerned about you… did something happen?”

Gilbert’s stare was opaque. He supposed this was the sort of reaction he’d have to get used to. What sort of story should he make up, he wondered? The one Ludwig and his father cooked up was dreadfully dull, but it was at least a good base. Gilbert leaned against the staircase railing, smiling slightly. “Things got a little crazy while you were gone, Roderich. I think I kinda lost my mind,” he admitted. Then swiftly returned to the lie. “I quit my job and went to visit family up north. You know, for a bit of R and R. Everything’s awesome now though, I promise.”

Roderich watched him. He may have been too tired to pursue the topic further, but he did glare Gilbert down, which was commendable.

“Trust me, Roddy,” Gilbert snickered, trying to muster his usual smile. “Would I lie to you?”

“Of course you would,” Roderich replied haughtily. He seemed too tired to continue talking.

Gilbert was far too thankful.

“Well,” Roderich murmured a little more quietly. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you in the morning. Thank you for… well, being my temporary butler.”

Gilbert saluted him. “Anytime, master.”

Roderich shook his head and continued walking up the stairs.

After he left, Gilbert cleaned the living room and the kitchen. He cleaned probably far more than was necessary—the place was already spick and span. He cleaned for hours, until it was after midnight. After he was done he couldn’t sleep. He just laid atop the couch, where Roderich was before, and watched the TV on the lowest possible volume. He wasn’t even watching. He did what he usually did now: stare blankly.

Eventually the night turned dawn. Gilbert slept maybe a wink or two: he estimated he’d rested for two hours, though he didn’t feel tired in the least. He had to wait until seven for another task however; that was the time the nearest grocery store opened.

Gilbert had some savings, but for this occasion he used the company credit card still in his wallet. He bought fancy cheeses, salamis, bread, milk, nice coffee, cookies, and chocolate. Gilbert stocked them all away in the empty kitchen with enormous precision until it looked just the way Roderich would want it.

When he was satisfied, he tempted fate by checking in on Roderich. Gilbert knew the house like the back of his hand. He still remembered where all of the creaks were in the floorboards. He quietly opened the bedroom door and peeked in: Roderich was sleeping soundly, chest heaving up and down steadily under his elaborate floral duvet. A princess in every possible way.

Gilbert went downstairs.

He didn’t know what else to do.

So he picked up his suitcase and left.

 

* * *

 

“Lovino.”

Antonio’s shadow spread across the interior of the boat deck. He was standing at the doorway in the clothes he left in - only a few hours had passed - but he looked as though he’d been gone for a day. His clothes looked as worn as his face. Even so, his emerald eyes still twinkled with a secret source of energy that came from a place neither Lovino, nor anyone else, could fathom.

Lovino shrank into the couch and frowned in the other direction. He was hoping with the drama that ensued about Gilbert, what was mentioned previously would be cast to the wayside and he’d be able to avoid a difficult conversation. But Antonio looked like he’d settled into seriousness for the day. Probably even _days_.

Antonio crossed the room and stood in front of Lovino for several seconds, expecting his attention.

“What is it?” Lovino grumbled, not making eye contact. He had his hands wrapped around a lukewarm mug of coffee, and took a sip though it didn’t taste great.

Antonio sighed and sat down close to Lovino. He looped an arm around Lovino’s shoulder and nestled his face close to Lovino’s ear. “Why would you keep a secret like that from me?”

Lovino rolled his eyes. “I couldn’t very well tell you Gilbert was in AA. It’s called  _anonymous_ for a reason.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” Lovino muttered, setting his mug on the table. His eyes flicked briefly to Antonio, but it was too flustering, so he stared at his knees instead. “But  _shouldn’t_ we be talking about Gilbert? That’s obviously the issue. Not something from my past.”

Antonio’s breath was heavy and pensive. “What’s happening with Gilbert can’t be helped at this point. He’s not even here. But you and I have been dating for months and you never brought up AA or your…”

Lovino shut his eyes. “Alcoholism. You can say it,” he finished dryly. It was an emotional issue, but at this point, it had become an emotional issue that Lovino could talk about emotionlessly. He’d been talking about it for two years now and after a certain point, he discovered how to deliver the facts as clipped and concise as necessary. “I had a drinking problem a while ago,” he continued in the same tone. “It was bad. I did a lot of dumb shit and ruined people’s lives including my own. But I’ve been fine for two years.”

Antonio’s hands threaded in Lovino’s hair. “I’m proud of you, of course. And I’m happy you’re healthy now. But it worries me that you never mentioned it.” Antonio grasped Lovino’s hand and pressed butterfly kisses to his palm. “It makes me think you don’t trust me.”

A blush bloomed on Lovino’s cheeks. He didn’t pull his hand away, but he still didn’t want to look at Antonio. “I trust you just fine. It’s just not the sexiest thing to toss into a conversation. And fuck it, it’s in the past so why should I bring it up anyway?”

“Because I love you.”

Lovino groaned. He was bright red, and his free hand covered his face. “ _I know._  Don’t say it now. When someone says ‘ _oh, by the way I used to be a raging alcoholic’_ , you don’t reply with  _I love you_. That’s just insane!”

“But it’s the truth,” Antonio said, voice completely calm. “I love you more than anyone. So I want to know you better than anyone.”

Lovino pressed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Okay, great. Well now you do. Can we,” he stopped, sensing the rare resurgence of emotion crawling up his throat. He didn’t like talking about these things, but with strangers he could do it easily. With people he cared about… apparently it was still too hard. Lovino shyly turned to Antonio and kissed his lips—his apology. Before it could get heated, Lovino broke away and mumbled, “can we just leave it at that for today?”

Antonio glomped onto Lovino’s body more fully, humming and smiling with much better humor. “Of course,  _mi querido_ . I love you, I love you,  _I love youuuu_. Thank you for telling me.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Lovino sighed, now returning the full body hug with much less energy. He let himself relax against the warmth and weight of Antonio’s broad shoulders, and let himself  _feel_ that he was loved. He was loved. He was  _loved._

But it made his heart hurt. Because he thought back to the day Gilbert introduced the two of them, the day Lovino fell for Antonio, and Antonio fell for Lovino. And the day Lovino believed he stole Antonio away from Gilbert.

Gilbert never talked about himself much. It was always the sparsest details. Lovino honestly never could figure out whether Gilbert was an alcoholic, or just someone with other problems that went to AA. Regardless, Gilbert was an excellent listener. He empathized with Lovino, and Lovino felt comfortable with him because he sensed that Gilbert possessed the same sort of emotional chaos Lovino had. The difference being, Gilbert was able to control it much better than Lovino.

Or so Lovino thought.

Lovino did steal Antonio away from Gilbert. He did he did he did. And Antonio stole Lovino away from Gilbert too. Lovino used to be his friend. They talked so often.

But even he didn’t know what happened to Gilbert.

Lovino only knew what it was like to push chaos down and down and down again, fighting it to never return. And he dearly hoped Gilbert hadn’t lost that fight, because it seemed as though Gilbert didn’t depend on anyone, so how on earth would he return?

 

* * *

 

Before he had to go to work at the bar Arthur either spent his day at home, reading and lounging, or at cafes doing just the same. Today was a homeday. It was also sunny and pleasant, so Arthur sat on his balcony, feet on his table, smoking cigarettes while reading his new book.

After the day’s events with Ludwig, Francis basically floated into Arthur’s apartment, using the spare key, and appearing on the balcony like an exhausted and confused ghost. He was pale as a sheet, and blond hair uncharacteristically frazzled. His blue eyes found Arthur staring at him expectantly and, hand to his head, Francis made a dramatic sigh.

“Oh Arthur,” he moaned, collapsing into the free chair and falling over the table. Arthur frowned and nudged his ashtray out from under Francis’s hair. Francis continued lamenting. “What a day, darling. What a day. How do I even begin explaining it…”

Arthur flipped a page in his book. “You don’t need to explain it. I’m pretty sure I get the gist.”

Francis raised his head and stared at him wide-eyed. “You _do?”_

“Sure. Some drama happened. Perhaps all of you idiots argued for an hour or two. But in the end nothing was resolved and Gilbert is still missing. Is that about it?”

“Well, it’s very edited, but I suppose…” Francis trailed off and let his head fall onto the table again. He closed his eyes. “Yes, that’s about it.”

Arthur relit his forgotten cigarette. After exhaling, he replied, “thought so.”

Birds were chirping in the distance and the cars seemed louder when neither of them spoke. It was disorienting. Francis didn’t want to be distracted by the small things today. He wanted to keep talking. “Arthur, do you have any vices?” he asked thoughtfully. “Or weakness or whatever.”

“I’m smoking a cig and you ask me if I have any vices?” Arthur deadpanned. Straight to the point.

Francis smirked fondly. “And any weaknesses?”

Arthur decided to entertain Francis’s dramatic spell, and hummed as he considered the question. “I’m a short-tempered, foul-mouthed, chain-smoking Brit who enjoys his alone time far too much and has trouble talking about feelings. Does that answer the question?”

“It does,” Francis laughed. He raised his head to rest on crossed arms. His eyes traced the planes of Arthur’s face. “I’m probably the exact opposite of you. I talk everything emotional, and I’m always exquisitely charming.”

“And modest.”

“I don’t like being alone. Not even for a moment. But at the same time, I stray from romantic intimacy. Friendship intimacy I can do all day long, but there’s a certain romantic border I’ve always been afraid of crossing…” Francis trailed off, letting his gaze wander to the side.

Arthur frowned, very unimpressed. “Well, I could have told you that Francis. I could have also told you, as I’ve been telling you, that your one weakness is that you run away from the important things.” He pressed his cigarette butt into the ashtray and smoke flowered around them. “I’m a grumpy turtle and you’re a social butterfly. Surely that’s a metaphor you’d like.”

“I love butterflies,” Francis smiled childishly.

Arthur fought a smile, but a corner still rose up. He picked up his book, assuming the conversation over. “I know.”

But Francis kept sighing, meaning he had more to say. “Antonio’s similar to me in a way. Except I think romantic love is a lot easier for him. He eats love for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He’s always been like that. He loves so easily. That’s his weakness.”

Arthur had a feeling Francis was ramping up to a point now, so he closed his book.

“But Gilbert,” Francis bemoaned, closing his eyes. “I really never thought of him as the type to have any weaknesses, or vices. Aside from his obnoxious streak.” He held his chin in his hand, eyes far more pointed. “So the possibility of him being an alcoholic is extremely surprising.”

“Alcoholic?” Arthur repeated, confused.

Francis was overly consoled that Arthur was as baffled as he was. “Lovino mentioned that Gilbert goes to AA. He didn’t say much more than that though.”

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, maybe something thoughtless, so he stopped. He tried again, “I don’t know Gilbert as well as you and Antonio. And to be honest, I haven’t seen much of him since you left. But I never suspected he might be an alcoholic.”

“That’s such a relief, you have no idea,” Francis said, nervously pulling at his hair now. “I didn’t talk to Antonio much after the whole ordeal, but I know he’s just as worried that we should have noticed something. I guess he’s even more beat up, since he was actually here. But… but,” Francis dug his nails into his scalp. He released and took a deep breath. “Gilbert always seemed so impenetrable. Like nothing ever got to him. Nothing _could_ ever hurt him. And he could just keep going like an absurd, loud, and cocky steel train. He never had any problems while we were growing up really. Just stupid ones. So what are Antonio and I supposed to think? That he has this whole other side we have no idea about?”

It was Arthur’s turn to sigh now. He hated dilemmas like these; he hated them even more when they happened to Francis because unlike Arthur, Francis would let this eat him for days, and even weeks. Arthur awkwardly reached for Francis’s hand across the table. Francis latched onto the human contact immediately, but Arthur still blushed because things like this made him very uncomfortable.

“I’m not sure how articulate this is going to sound, but I’ll try my best,” Arthur coughed. Despite his blush, he regarded Francis with serious eyes. “Even though you don’t see yourself as a strong person, I _do_ see you that way. And the way you just described Gilbert is very close to how I would have described you. Detached, carefree, confident, with no worries. But obviously, from what you just said, that’s not how you see yourself.” Arthur raised his free hand. “So just imagine for a second that you’re Gilbert, who - let’s just admit it - wants to be the ‘most awesome’ person in the room. And you’re friends with you, who really doesn’t seem like the type that has any real problems and has instead a detestable amount of luck in looks and charm. And friends with Antonio, who seemingly wears his heart on his sleeve, is incredibly popular, and harbors no dark corners whatsoever.”

“Yes, but Gilbert _knows_ that we’re not just that,” Francis protested, tightening his hold on Arthur’s hand. His blue eyes were swimming in emotion. “He’s seen both Toni and I at our worst. He’s seen us throw up in streets!”

“I’ve seen you at your worst, Francis, but it didn’t mean I thought you were any less of an untouchable aristocrat,” Arthur muttered with a roll of his eyes. “What I’m saying is the way you and Antonio hold Gilbert to such a high regard is probably the way he sees you two as well. Or maybe, I guess, Gilbert knows that you guys see him as the tough one so he doesn’t want to let you guys down.”

Francis’s jaw fell open. “Why _Arthur,”_ he gasped. His eyes were sparkling like stars. “Since when did you become so emotionally intelligent? I’m so impressed I could kiss you.”

“Well, I—”

Francis didn’t wait another moment to jump over the table and plant a large smooch onto Arthur’s lips. His smile was still amazed when the kiss ended; Arthur looked disheveled and slightly pleased.

“Sorry,” Francis laughed, still holding Arthur’s shoulders. “What were you going to say?”

A tiny smile appeared on Arthur’s face—the type of smile Francis knew all too well. Arthur looked up, making it clear it was his rare turn to be dramatic. “Well, I was going to say I’d love to take the credit, but the truth is being a bartender has its perks.”

Francis blinked.

Arthur bit his lip so he wouldn’t laugh (because it’s not as if the situation was funny or anything). “Gilbert pretty much said what I just told you, word for word, one night when he was drunk at my bar.”

 _“Oh,”_ Francis chuckled darkly. He shouldn’t be amused either (because it’s not as if the situation was funny or anything). “Oh, Arthur you conniving man.”

Arthur was conniving, it was true. Because he succeeded in many accounts today: 1.) listening attentively like a good boyfriend should 2.) proffering useful information in a somewhat timely manner and 3.) distracting Francis for a few hours from the drama and angst that would have otherwise consumed him.

Arthur _was_ a good boyfriend.

But it made him happier to be reminded that if he and Francis were at war, he would _of course_ win.

 

* * *

 

Gilbert sat at the cafe of his hometown train station bitterly updating himself on his phone. He took the earliest train after leaving Roderich’s, which took him home still in the early hours of morning. But upon stepping foot onto platforms he knew a little too well, Gilbert detoured to the cafe and had remained sitting there til mid-afternoon—drinking coffee, eating pastries, and now, looking at his phone.

“Goddammit,” Gilbert muttered, hunching over the screen. He cursed approximately every two minutes. The baristas and long-staying customers were used to it now.

Gilbert had already caught up on the messages from his brother, which asked the basic questions like: _Where are you? Please message me if you are safe. Did you miss your train? Is everything okay?_

Which eventually progressed to: _Gilbert, stop being immature. This better not be an act for attention. At least message me that you’re safe._

And finally: _Gilbert you fuc—_

So Gilbert then moved onto Francis, who was the second-easiest, only because of the fact Francis had been away for so long so their contact had been touch-and-go. (Gilbert wasn’t bitter about it.) Francis left a series of voicemails, all about ten seconds in length and along some variation of:

_“Gilbert, darling. Please call me back as soon as you can!! I’ve had the most dramatic day and I just want to know that you’re okay. Love you.”_

In the distance of a few, Gilbert thought he heard Arthur’s dry voice telling Francis to calm down. The world kept turning while Gilbert was away, it would seem.

Lovino and Feliciano were next. Feliciano’s were brief and cheery, meaning Ludwig had obviously not let him in on what actually happened—thank fucking god. Lovino’s were just as brief, but not at all cheery. Definitely the most somber of all Gilbert’s messages, and the ones that he felt the most guilty for ignoring before and for continuing to ignore now. There wasn’t any good place to start in a text message. Gilbert sucked at texting, and he hated it even more.

For better or worse, Gilbert knew for a fact he would be seeing Lovino soon, and he supposed, if it was necessary, he’d fill him in on… _some_ details.

And then, after all of that, Gilbert had Elizaveta and Antonio, god help him. Gilbert honestly couldn’t figure who was worse. At first glance, certainly Elizaveta. She went from zero to a hundred in one text and stayed that way in emails, voicemails, the works. Some had her in tears. The majority were in yells. None at all said she wanted to get back together, and for the first time in a while, Gilbert actually didn’t care about that. He hadn’t cared for months, technically, but that was probably because of other reasons. Even now though, when he was free and literally sitting in his hometown, he didn’t actually want to get back together with Elizaveta. It was over.

“Fuck it,” Gilbert cursed as he deleted all of Elizaveta’s messages and voicemails. He read and heard enough to know her feelings. He didn’t want to hear anymore for a while.

Antonio was the wildcard… He always had been in their trio’s dynamic. Francis and Gilbert were, for the most part, stable and even predictable. But Antonio had a bizarre dark side that would reveal itself every once in a while. Gilbert guessed even the most good-humored person in the world had to crack once in a while. Antonio’s messages were typically silly and misplaced, but in the past few hours they became more serious and even aggressive.

_Gilbert, I don’t know where the hell you are, but as soon as you’re back we need to talk._

_Lovino told me some things you probably didn’t were never going to tell us_

_Don’t be mad at him. We were just so concerned for you, we ended up forcing information from him._

_So please, just whenever you’re back, call us. We need to talk._

“God fucking damn.” Gilbert’s head fell to the table with a thud. He shut his eyes hard until he saw stars. His breath heaved and his knuckles turned white around his phone. He sat up fast, eyes blazing.

 _Okay,_ he thought. _Okay, okay, okay._

Gilbert knew what he needed to do. He would do what he’d been doing for years.

Push.

It.

Down.

What happened happened. He couldn’t change the past. But sure as hell could keep it secret and _in_ the past. Antonio had his own life. Francis had his own life. Ludwig had his own life. And surely, Elizaveta had hers too.

Gilbert could do this. He was always strong. He was always stupid and loud and ready for a good time. He could keep doing it.

His hand automatically searched through his phone for Ludwig’s number. He called and pressed the screen to his ear. He felt outside of himself as he talked.

“Ludwig?” he greeted first, hearing the phone had been picked up.

A hasty breath, and Ludwig replied, “Gilbert, where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be here last night!”

Gilbert laughed—where on earth did that come from? “Yeah, yeah, bro. No worries. Got caught up in something for a night. I’m here now.”

“Wh—wait. We’ll get back to last night later. You’re here as in…?”

“Here as in hometown here. At the train station. So come get me already, would ya? You’re late,” he joked, hearing his own voice as jovial and normal. That soothed him.

“For god’s sake, Gilbert,” Ludwig muttered. Sounds of shuffling papers and heavy steps carried through. “I’m on my way now. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Just—”

“I’ll be counting down the seconds,” Gilbert said, and hung up.

He snickered to himself, proud that he’d managed that problem. As for the tricky one…

Gilbert bit his lip and hovered his fingers over the screen. He paused. Then he wrote to Francis and Antonio.

_Yo, guys! I’m back in hometown. Wanna grab dinner tomorrow?_

Send.

Gilbert sat back, no smile on his face, but faraway, steadfast determination clear in his eyes. He could do this. He could. Everything that happened - all of the stupid, fucking shit he did - none of it had to matter anymore.

Everyone else had moved on, so Gilbert would too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! one chapter left which will wrap everything up: now due second week of may. it's going to be stupidly long, knowing me… please comment :)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :) i'll be working on this fic during april and hopefully return to disegno e colore in may... comments are much appreciated!


End file.
